Winter's spring
by Eman On1
Summary: [she hated winter] It was too cold for you, wasn’t it? The wind too strong, love? Your clothes not warm enough? Pathetic [it was his favorite season]
1. Winter and her

**Disclaimer: **Own nothing of this world.

**Note: **The following poem is by John Clare. Marvelous man, by the way.

Anywho. Secret Garden will be continued, the third chapter will be 'confusion free', I hope. One of those days is on hold for the time been. The sixth chapter is a shocker, I fear. [smirk] And that's it. 

**Rating: **not much.

[Silver, the way you speak.]

…

+++

I was running. Like the wind. 

Snort.

No, really. 

My knees high upon the air, flirting with my stomach but recoiling in the last second as my feet stamped against the checkered floors.

The slap of my sandals against the shiny floors. 

I could see my reflection. As I ran.

I saw my hair, a flaming flag. Vibrant in its colors, tinged and scorched at the roots with licks of burgundy. The crimson color of war. Blood stained and flowing. 

My mind wandered. Of many a thoughts. 

A city sprang to mind. 

Its roots and mud houses came to form the foundations as the sounds of my running rebounded off the castle's walls.

The people milled around in the local marketplace. Their clothes a shocking color above the dusted golden sands.

There were carpets on sale, I thought suddenly as I rounded a corner, panting slightly. 

Hung from wooden poles that tickled the sky and swayed with the winds. 

They were majestic. A raging abyss of colors, shapes and design. 

He was gesturing a lot. The merchant. His eyes widened ovals against the longish slant of his tanned face. The gleam in his eyes prominent as he pointed out the lavish details emblazoned on the carpets beside him.

He was half smiling. The merchant. 

Unconsciously, I imitated the slant of his mouth. The barely present smile that quirked the end of one mouth and left the other untouched.

A wolfish smile. 

I laughed slightly at my own imagination, stopping now to catch my breath. 

Placing my hands on my knees, I leaned all my weight, bending greatly and hunching my back in the process.

I looked at my reflection again.

And saw a pair of eyes. A mouth and a long nose.

A jaded distant description, you might think. And I might add that I fully agree. 

A policy I followed when dealing with others and apparently even with my own self.

There's no need to get attached with the world. You'll leave it behind anyways. Somehow. 

Any day. But someday. 

I straightened and continued my running with a new vigor. From the sheer force of desperation. I wanted to run free. Away from my dissolute thoughts.

And as I ran I escaped again into my made up world.

I added sounds now. The humming buzz of talking, the way it ascends in some parts and descends in others. The butterfly movement of its glide as it sweeps the whole market place; a veil of symphonies. 

There was also music. 

Hidden at first by the cacophony of words, letters and swirling dialects that danced through the air. But somehow, it was picked up.

Transported by the arms of wind, kissed softly and breathed drunkenly through every fiber of its being. Until it rang loudly above the other noises.

A king roaring above his nobles, demanding he be heard.

Music. A sound. A note.

It was the breathing of a flute.

The nimble notes as they soared through the air, spinning lazily in a vortex of echo. 

…Like fingers, long touches upon the ridges of your back. Swift warm strokes against the base of your neck.

Sensation after sensation, the sounds it made…

I stopped suddenly. 

For I have reached my destination.

The sounds of my world falling back into the darkest recess of my mind. 

The vision blurring to hide away the blazing sun and the rich colors of the city below it, revealing reality's coldness and the frosty smile that was now gracing me with its cherished malice. 

"You're late"

He oozed. 

+++

I sighed. Trudging past him, trying to control my breath as I strolled into the room, fully aware of the glare aimed with frightening precision at the back of my neck.

I turned towards the nearest widow. The only window.

And looked beyond it, below, at the snow covered expanse. 

White. Pure white. 

White mingled with gray. The graying of the sky above and blew the whiteness that blinds.

His arms came from behind. They rested on the window's ledge, his palms taking much of its surface, long slender fingers grasping it tightly as his warmth neared my back.

He encircled me, yet in a sense never did. Enclosed me within his sphere, yet I was never invited.

No matter. I gave up trying to understand him a long time ago. He was a puzzle, left best unclear. 

I could have been quiet, like I always was around him.

We needn't words, him and I. 

But the occasion felt otherwise. So I ventured,

"You're in your element."

I felt him grunt his satisfaction before it was uttered, for his arms came to rest around my waist, yielding me closer to him in time to feel the vibrations of his sound.

I smiled sardonically; my half muttered "Finally" earning me a bite on the ear.

I laughed lightly, my back shaking against him. His arms tightened in response, his head falling against my shoulder.

He sighed as the shower of snowflakes began, raining down from heaven, blanketing the land with its touches.

As if it wasn't drowning enough.

I turned my head away in disgust. 

He chuckled. Sadistically. 

I hated winter. 

"This season kills life." I hissed, angered by his response.

"It makes way for a new one." Was his lazy reply.

He was in a good mood today. Usually, I got only half cryptic sentences with three dots at the end.

But then again, the mood could only be explained as one of the side affects of him witnessing the first morning of the beginning of winter.

His favorite month. 

The month of his birth.

The season of death.

I shook my head in dry mirth and snapped the first thing that came to mind. Of course, that action alone could be defined as stupid, so I really wasn't surprised at the mocking tidal wave of laughter that came shortly after my declaration.

"You hate the_ color_? Really, Weasley. Your lack of sensibility and logic never seizes to amaze me."

I let the insult pass; after all, I practically invited it. But I didn't let the fact that he was now in the process of marking me slip. I disengaged my neck from his warm mouth with a slight tilt. Just barely away from his wet lips, but not far enough to not feel the maddening sensations of his breathing. 

Suddenly, I heard the sounds of the flute. In my ear.

And I heard him mutter the lines that matched the sounds in rhythm and trance.

"The winter comes; I walk alone, 

I want no bird to sing; 

To those who keep their hearts their own 

The winter is the spring. 

No flowers to please--no bees to hum-- 

The coming spring's already come."

He chuckled cruelly, biting the lope of my ear, earning himself a wondrous gasp. A gasp so filled with surprise it thrilled him to no end.

"I never want the grass to bloom: 

The snowstorm's best in white. 

I love to see the tempest come 

And love its piercing light. 

The dazzled eyes that love to cling 

O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring."

He licked a fire of heated numbness, like freezing water that burns instead, a path from my lifeless shoulders, across the slope of my neck, and just under my ear.

"I love the snow, the crumpling snow 

That hangs on everything,"

I felt his palm, open and wide, slip stealthily under my shirt, lifting the fabric brutally, as his fingers ascended me. 

"That hangs on everything,"

He whispered plainly and I seized my struggling. 

I stopped. And enjoyed.

Letting my neck fall against his shoulder, relaxing, breaking free, and letting him support me. I let go.

His voice never wavered from its depth. It kept rolling over my arching back and delving into my every pore. 

"A landscape to the aching sight, 

A vast expanse of dazzling light."

He touched my hair. Softly. His other palm falling gracefully to drape across my hips in contentment.

His smiled. 

Half a smile, with one corner quirked slightly upwards and the other left untouched…

A wolfish smile…

And then I felt him no more. 

Weak and without support, I clutched franticly at the window's ledge to keep from falling. 

I hated him when he did that. Leaving me torn after breaking me free.

But then again, I was always thankful. 

Who knows what I would have let him do to me if he continued.

But he never did go further than that, though. We never even kissed. 

The thought never even entered my mind, you know.

Ha. Me. Him. Kiss?

Why would I want to kiss my own best friend?!

Silly fool. 

+++

**Not really the end. **

**Note**: Hn, surprise twist at the end. La.

This could very well be a series of Vignettes.

Not quite sure yet. 

Oh and by the way, it's still my usual pairing. 


	2. Him and Winter

**Note**: You're so sweet. Really and truly. You're reviews left me floating. I feel almost guilty for your strong confession; I wish you could read the stories I've read on this site. Four years of 'Fanfiction.net' was enough for me to separate the good fics from the exceptionally written. I should probably list them on my fav and share. I hope you have fun reading them. Love, Eman On. 

…

A certain Slytherin's point of view. 

[ Red, the way you feel ]

…

+++

It's such a magnificent feeling that envelops you. Truly and completely universal, this feeling. Words of long ago, thoughts ingrained, and feelings all collide and blur the vision.

In the middle of the snow, with the whipping of the air, its lashing tides of wind…White…

My favorite season.

Could it get any better?

Hm. It just did…

Rain.

… And snow. And wind.

Cold…   
Harsh. And cruel.

My haven.

My world.

+++

You don't understand?

Perhaps you haven't tried it?

It was too cold for you, wasn't it? The wind too strong, love? Your clothes not warm enough?

Wimp.

Fool.

You're missing it. 

Hm, better you did then.

Your delicate bones wouldn't handle the wind's caress. Its kisses will drown you in shivers- 

You'll gasp when it finally lashes and enters your soul.

I am laughing. 

Me- laughing.

How strange. Yet so freeing. 

I love this. 

I love how the wind loves me. How the rain shields me. How the snow covers me.

+++

I look up. And the rain and snow look down. And we meet.

+++

You gasp. The first time you see me. I see your eyebrows knit. Even from where I am standing, I can hear the shocked gasp that tears its way from your flushed mouth, a puff of air surrounding the sweet sound.

I watch you still, as you fumble with your umbrella, looking over continually, as if fearing that I might somehow disappear. Away from you.

Hm, I have done that. Numerous times.

But not now.

Not now.

You finally throw the damned thing away, offering it an angry glare for not working properly, and especially when she needed you most. 

"Stupid little thing"

I hear you shout. Angry. I've never seen you angry before.

It makes me tilt my head in fascination. Makes me wash away the rain from my face, even as it appears again, to gaze at the red flush of color adorning the pale expanse of your neck.

You're trudging in the snow. Your boots too big, your gloves torn, and your jacket not thick enough.

And no umbrella to shield the elements away.

My lovely friends.

They don't take pity on you. 

Shame.

You fall three times. You lose your scarf on the way. And your eyes shut tight as the coughs convulsive around you. 

They don't take pity on you.

And I am still standing. Watching. Waiting.

You finally reach me.

And I look down on you.

And you look up at me.

And we meet.

+++

Funny, how long and tiring a short distance could prove to be. For her.

I had her in my arms, her small form shivering and her delicate fingers clasped tightly to her chest. 

I walked the small distance form the middle of the Qudditch field to the Great Castle's door, where the useless red umbrella lay on its marble steps.

I pushed in and headed for my private room. 

The halls were quiet, the floors untouched and the air inside infected with dreams; Dawn. 

This time of day, she liked best. 

She said it had to do with the quietness that almost purifies the Castle's walls. The knowledge that a powerful place that harbors many powerful wizards, could lay still and quiet; could lie eternally and enjoy the warmth and rise of the sun across the sky.

That something so powerful could be so humble to something so simple as the rise of the sun and its rays.

She had a way with words. This Gryffindor.

+++

I shut the door with a short kick of my ankle, laying her on my couch; I went over to my closet to pick up two towels and one of my pj's.

She was still shivering. Her coughs sounding more than once in the breadth of a minute. 

I changed her position, so that she was sitting on the couch instead. And began toweling her.

Ripping her hair tie away, I rubbed the scandalous locks dry, letting them fall nimbly on her shivering shoulders. 

Her eyes were still shut.

Even as I began unbuttoning her shirts buttons, the jacket long since discarded.

The wet garment, now fully stripped off, revealed a linen undershirt held by thin straps that wrapped themselves elegantly around her bony shoulders. 

Now, in the process of warming her shoulder blades and arms with the towel, I found my eyes wandering dangerously to the spot where her shoulder meets her neck.

A little birthmark. Clover shaped and tantalizing. 

My little reason for relishing this addictive place. For kissing and tasting the little alluring blemish that mars her otherwise perfect skin. 

Working my way down, I pulled her pants and toweled her legs dry, my eyes lingering on the scars adoring her knees and legs. 

Fingering the small scar on her upper thigh, marveling in spite of myself at how soft it feels; I neglected to acknowledge the startled gasp from above.

It was only when my index finger played with the elastic band of her, not surprisingly, white underwear, did I look her in the face and smirk.

She let out a sigh of relief. 

I wasn't interested in her. 

No. I wasn't.

Now ridding her of her drenched socks, (the boots were kicked off as soon as I laid her on my couch), I felt her arm snake around my shoulders. 

I finished. And now it was my turn.  
  
+++

She was still sitting on the couch, toweling my head against the softness of her stomach, my nose buried in her scent inhaling her strongly as the towel ravaged the wetness in my hair.

My arms were resting tiredly by my side, my fists lying limply on the floor. She couldn't get my shirt off, and I wasn't helping. 

An annoyed grunt was all she made before ripping the buttons off and flinging the shirt away. 

I chuckled and moved to stand up. Getting my pj's, I threw the shirt at her and took the pants for my self. 

I saw her turn her head away as I pulled my pants down, smirking sardonically at the faint blush creeping across her neck.

Walking over to her, throwing my wet pants in the process, I grab the silken shirt from her trembling hand and motion for her to stand up.

She does. Barely.

She obediently raises her arms as the satin feel of the nightshirt slips over her head. The end reaches just over her knees.

For a minute there, we just stand there. Her eyes lulled and sleepy, and mine just gazing at her.

And then. I reached out and lifted her hair from the confines of the shirt, letting it lay freely on her shoulders and down her back.

The contrast of her red hair and the green satin of the shirt was startling to say the least. 

And somehow, I wanted to be back in the middle of the Qudditch field under the snow again.

I soon found her against me though, her arms wrapped lazily around my waist, her face buried deep against my neck.

+++

Seconds later, I found myself wrapped in warmth and tangled about your heat.

The covers tucked over us. The rain and snow tapping silently against the window.

And as sleep claimed me several hours after you, the thought of leaving _this_ for _anything_ was very unlikely. 

+++

Ginny slept the day away, dreaming of a white haired boy, with gleaming eyes that laughed lovingly under the rain and snow. 

+++

note from sick author: try the piano piece from chapter one. i really love that piece.


End file.
